Elora scowls. I’m certain she learned it from me. Though we appear nearly identical, our hearts sing to different beats. Her dark eyes are life-giving coals. Mine are aloof, mistrustful, wary. Her skin, a deep umber, is flawless, a stark contrast to the raised, puckered scar mutilating my right cheek. Elora’s dark hair is straight as a pin while mine has the frustrating habit of curling. She is my twin, and she is the opposite of me in every way.
Looking at Elora is akin to looking into a mirror—one that shows the person I used to be, prior to finding ourselves orphaned. And now? Well. I’ve had blood on my hands more times than I care to admit. I’ve killed men, I’ve sold my body, I’ve thieved time and again, all for a bit of food or warmth or coin, or the dried herbs Elora loves to cook with. So small a thing, yet rare and precious to her.
Elora knows none of this. She is too soft for this world, too good. She would never survive the Deadlands.
“The point is,” I say, “we can’t stay here.” It won’t take long to pack our bags, for we own little to begin with.
“What?” She rears back. “When did you decide this?”
“Just now.” We’ll travel south, west, east. Anywhere but north, where the Deadlands lie.
A wan smile touches her mouth. “Of course you did.”
“Come with me.” I pivot, reaching for her slender hands. “We’ll leave this place for good, start fresh somewhere new—”
“Wren.” Calmly, Elora unknots my fingers from her own. She has always been far more levelheaded than I. “You know we can’t do that.”
The North Wind’s arrival occurs every few decades. One woman, taken captive across the Shade for reasons unknown. One woman killed so that others may live. There is little I love in this life aside from Elora, and I wonder if I will soon face yet more suffering.
Last week, every woman between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five drew sticks to determine who would be offered as a sacrifice. Seven poor souls selected the shortest sticks, including my sister. Should she attempt to flee her fate, she will be put to death. That is Edgewood’s law.
“I don’t care,” I hiss, tears pricking my eyes. “If he takes you—”
Her gaze softens. “He won’t.”
“If you think that, you are a fool.” Elora is the loveliest of all the women in our village. Every other week, a man asks for my sister’s hand in marriage. She has yet to accept an offer for reasons unknown to me. The flagrant lack of concern over this approaching threat reveals justhow different our priorities are, and reinforces the roles we have fallen into after all these years.
Elora and I were only fifteen when, newly orphaned, we learned the true weight of loneliness, those frightening years stretched before us in an unending black road. It was then I took up the bow. It was then I slaughtered the darkwalkers so Elora could sleep with an unspoiled conscience. After all, this was who my parents molded me into: guardian, defender. Why should she worry when I am here to protect her? But even I cannot stand before a god and win.
Elora moves to one of the crates stored against the wall. Prying open the lid, she reveals its meager contents—two days’ worth of salted meat, if that—and shoves a strip of jerky into my hand. “Please eat something. You must be hungry after the journey.”
“I feel ill.”
“Then sit. Mayhap that might help.”
It’s not a chair I need. Strain has burrowed so far inside my bones it’s impossible to separate the two. And so I reach for the cupboard containing the wine, snag one of the bottles, and uncork it. As soon as the drink wets my tongue, the snarling knot at the base of my spine unravels, and my mind regains clarity. Two more gulps and I’m steadier.
“Wren.”
My fingers tighten their vise around the bottle. Again, I swallow, teeth bared as the burn sharpens, searing a path straight to my stomach. “I don’t need your judgment. Not now.”
“It’s not healthy.”
I scoff. “Neither is sacrificing our women to a vengeful god. We do what we must.”
She sighs as I angle away, returning the wine to the cupboard. I ignore her. This is the conversation that remains unchanged. Elora asks for things I cannot grant her. She asks too much of me.
Reaching into the breast pocket of my coat, I pull out a folded length of wool. “I passed a tradesman on my journey. You mentioned your scarf was wearing out.”
Her eyes brighten at the gift. We have so few possessions. “What’s this?” She gasps in delight upon unraveling the scarf. It bears an image of large waves shaping a great sea, though we’ve never seen any body of water save the frozen Les, the river that separates the Gray from the Deadlands.
“This is beautiful,” she gushes, wrapping the blue cloth around her throat. “How does it look?”
“Lovely.” Is there any other word to describe my sister? “Is it warm?”
“Very.” She adjusts the fabric, then pauses. “What’s that?” She gestures to the palm-sized book poking out from my coat pocket.
I go still. “Oh, that?” An easy, casual smile. “Nothing.”
